


Downward Spiral

by bluetears07



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alternate Canon, M/M, Sado-Masochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. Crane’s descent into madness, ever pursued by Gotham’s personification of fear both in and out of his Kevlar suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downward Spiral

**Author's Note:**

> During the course of the movie-verse, (filling in the holes) thus some slightly AU elements as well as playing around with quotes. Big thanks to beta Mneiai.

There is a fine line between genius and insanity, and Jonathan Crane had been flirting rather vicariously with it since day one at Arkham Asylum. To give the good doctor some credit, his initial intention had been focused on the purest psychiatric advancements: an idealistic aim to shed light upon the inner workings of the human intellect twisted by criminal insanity. However, as he delved deeper into the human psyche of the men housed in the asylum he discovered one common link connecting every one of his patients: fear. In some form or another, a simple instinctual fear, resonating from a place hidden deep within the human mind, appeared to be the single driving force behind the criminal actions. As with all of Dr. Crane’s previous endeavors, this new insight intrigued the young doctor, nagging in the back of his mind and begging incessantly to explore its theoretical potential. Thus leading him to Ra’s Al Ghul and his unnaturally blue hallucinogenic flowers, not to mention Falcone’s clutches in order to traffic the drugs into Gotham. Crane had been looking for some type of drug that would allow him to amplify the affects of terror in order to experiment with just how much the mind could take before it simply snapped, broken far beyond repair.

This strange, unnamed desire writhing hidden deep inside the externally sophisticated and composed young man was how he came to find himself standing in one of Arkham’s poorly illuminated bathrooms, staring at the tattered mask clutched in his pale hands. A cool sheen of sweat was pricking up the hairs on the back of his neck, just beneath the crisp collar, the only telltale sign that the young man was quietly berating himself in his mind. In front of one of the stainless steal sinks mounted on the wall below the hanging mirrors, Crane turned the course material over in his hands several times. In the flickering florescent light, as he moved the mask about it seemed to take on a life of its own. The inconstant glow catching a few of the wires beneath the surface that made up the gasmask and voice modifier sewn into the fabric. Finally stopping the anxious movement, he began looking for any possible places of weakness. One finger tugged with a suppressed anger at the frayed tear in the burlap, widening one of the small holes that had been purposely cut so that Crane could see.

A patient, one he had testified for so the man could be transferred to his asylum, a favor for Falcone, had not reacted as he thought. The man actually retaliated after being subjected to the hallucinogenic gas: tried to gouge Jonathan’s eye out with his blunt fingernails, clawing with everything he had left in his drugged body at the taunting mask. A yelp of pure terror had slipped past his lips as the crazed man lunged at him across the table. Jonathan had jumped away, retreating until his legs became tangled with a chair. He fell back onto the cold linoleum floor. The man followed, hooking his fingers in the hole and ripping the fabric. Toxin, still clinging to the man’s clothing, seeped through the burlap. As the patient pulled at the mask the filter stitched into the fabric was lifted off his mouth and nose. Still calling for help, Crane felt the slightest burning tingle of his own drug filling his lungs before he clamped his mouth shut, holding his breath. Before the patient could do any real damage, the asylum guards had pulled him off the doctor. Shaken, Crane shrunk away into the corner of the room, tearing off the mask with trembling fingers as several of the nurses rustled the man into a confining straitjacket.

It had scared him.

' _Experiments are_ **not** _supposed to turn on you, Crane_!’ Jonathan’s mind screamed in a self-deprecating tone as he flung the offending mask in one of the filthy corners of the bathroom. Nothing was supposed to frighten the man who inspired fear in Gotham’s most perverse and horrifying criminals.

Ignoring the pulsing walls that seemed to vibrate with their own life force, he turned back to look in the mirror. All he saw was the pale face staring blankly back at him; meek, frightened and a long shot from terrifying. Dark strands of hair, once combed in a perfectly presentable manner, appeared disheveled as they fell into his eyes. His fingertips skidded over the curve of his cheekbones, dipping down to trace the hollow beneath. Electric blue eyes hidden behind glasses, the frames still slightly askew from the attack, flashed with a dangerous unbridled rage. Before his somewhat lucid mind knew what his body was doing, his arm lashed out. A tight fist collided with the mirror. The icy pain shot up and down his arm as shattered fragments of mirror sliced open his pale flesh.

‘ _Been sniffing your own toxin, Scarecrow?’_ An oddly familiar voice he could not place, piercing and taunting, mocked him in his mind. It laughed shrilly as the doctor rushed to the paper towel dispenser to mop up the blood draining in the sink and snaking down his arm. _‘Afraid yet?’_ the voice whispered in his ear.

It sounded so real, so close that he spun about, finding himself a little surprised when he saw no one standing there. He paused then, breath coming in short agitated puffs, looking down at the mess he had made of his own pale hand. Reflected in the blood splattered bits of mirror still lodged in knuckles he saw the mask lying in the corner, beckoning to him. Without a second thought he crossed the small room, bent down and grasped the mask in his good hand, pocketing it. Rising, he walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet.

Deliberately taking his time to feel every flicker of pain, Crane slowly pulled the shards of glass from his hand. Something in the pit of his stomach burned with long suppressed pleasure as he removed a small fleck, his skin clinging to it, seeming reluctant to let the intruding object go.

‘ _Slight masochistic and sadistic tendencies to keep that tinge of megalomania and ramped homosexuality company on cold nights, right Doc.?_ ’ The voice teased, using its very intimate knowledge of Jonathan Crane’s twisted psyche as well as its own insight into psychoanalysis against the young man’s comprehensive mind. However, the ‘Mister Hyde’ to Jonathan’s ‘Doctor Jekyll’ finally relapsed into the darker recesses of his mind. After tossing the sharp pieces into the trashcan, he attempted to sterilize the injuries with the foam soap as best he could in the grimy bathroom before wrapping his hand in several clean paper towels. Teeth clenched, jaw muscles stinging from the overexerted pressure, he took a few deep breathes, attempting to find his composure somewhere amidst the chaos of his addled mind. Slipping his wounded hand into his pants pocket, the young doctor pushed open the swinging door leading out of the bathroom.

“Doctor Crane,” the brunette secretary began, anxiously standing up at her desk upon seeing her employer walking the corridor. Jonathan continued down the hall in quick strides before stopping in front of her desk. Idly, he reached up to run a hand through his mussed hair and finally straightening the crooked frames. “Someone is here to see you about making a donation to Arkham.” She informed him, needlessly motioning to the frosted glass with his name scrawled on it, embedded in the upper half of the wooden door to his office. Smiling brightly at the young man, she remained standing with her hands clasped before her, resting against her flat stomach.

“Thank you, Miss Scarlet,” Crane replied with an icy formality curbing his voice, somewhat annoyed by the more than obvious implications of twisted lust that her body language screamed. Nevertheless intrigued, he watched her for a moment. Her eyes would dart to the door, painted lips pressed together in thinly veiled curiosity. The posture was not intended for him, of course, it never seemed to be, but was intended for whomever it was waiting in his office. Well, he would just have to find out what rich benefactor was keeping his secretary on the balls of her feet in anticipation. “Oh,” he paused, his wounded hand resting on the doorknob, remembering the little fit he had in the bathroom. Pursing his lips, he turned back to the woman with his head cocked to the side, dark brows drawn close in mock concern. “Would you send one of the custodians to check out the men’s restroom on the third floor, I believe that someone has broken one of the mirrors.” His voice raised a few octaves, peaking on the word ‘broken’ before he corrected his tone. Quickly turning to open the office door, the doctor hid the manic smirk curling up the corner of his mouth on its own accord.

 

 

It was not as if he truly wanted to be in Arkham Asylum at the moment, let alone in the Narrows despite it still being daylight, but Alfred had been nagging him for a week or so about behaving more like a billionaire. Of course the suggested code of conduct was to go about Gotham driving ridiculously overpriced sports cars, stepping out with models and buying whatever caught his eye no matter the price or availability. However, after running into Rachel outside his newly acquired hotel, and listening as she vocalized her disapproval of his actions as playboy Bruce Wayne, actions she claimed spoke volumes above whatever was inside him, he decided to take a different path with his billionaire ambitions. Bruce settled on following in his father’s footsteps; trying to help the floundering city by donating money, in addition to his nightly clean sweep of the city as the dark knight. It also did not hurt that Arkham was somewhat of a systematic attempt on Gotham’s part to keep the unstable criminals off the streets and away from those who were innocent. Only after being tried for their crimes and found insane were men sent to the asylum, all to be inducted into therapy. After all, Batman had to believe in redemption or else the city itself had no hope of surviving.

Patience, a quality he had never in earnest possessed in the first place, wearing thin, Bruce began looking around the doctor’s office while waiting for him to return from a session with some criminal lunatic. The small room was meticulously clean, save for the mass of papers and open books strewn over the desk. Glancing at one of the larger volumes, he saw it was an encyclopedia about botany, opened to a page concerning flowers and herbs that could be used for an antipsychotic. A strange feeling buzzed in the back of his mind as he ran his fingers over the oddly erratic script that sporadically made up the doctor’s notes, coming and going with certain words and phrases.

Walking about the cramp office several more times, Bruce observed that this Doctor Crane did not seem to have any photographs whatsoever on his desk or anywhere else. The only items framed and hanging from the wall behind the faux mahogany desk were several diplomas with archaic looking script in scrawling black ink. After walking behind the desk to admire the certificates, Bruce noticed the dates. With a genuinely awed expression, he realized just how young the man was for being the head of the psychiatric ward in the asylum, and thusly the head of Arkham itself, he seemed to be roughly about his own age if only a few years younger.

“Mister Wayne, if I’m not mistaken?” A chilly voice inquired, quickly drawing Bruce back into reality, causing him to gingerly step a respectable distance away from the man’s personal effects. Stilted smile pulling at his thin lips, the man walked back to the seat he had been originally waiting in, directly across from Crane’s own chair on the opposite side of the doctor’s desk. Eyes quickly racking over the man with a finely tuned psychiatrist’s mindset, Crane knew exactly why Scarlet had been in such a sexual frenzy over him, handsome and rich. He was the epitome of everything the young doctor had strived to be: externally strong, intimidating and powerful. Only after seeing the man in the flesh did the doctor realized why Gotham’s favorite son had actually stepped foot inside the Narrows. There was an unreal presence to the man. It was as if he were far more than just that, though as the billionaire slouched casually in his chair Jonathan knew he was trying rather hard to hide it from anyone who did not care to look twice at someone they either hated or envied.

“Yes, that’s correct, Doctor Crane.” Bruce’s smug look of superiority melted slowly into a genuine expression as he watched the fascinating young doctor cross the room. The lithe figure stepped behind his desk and, for appearances sake and his own compulsion to impress a hopefully soon-to-be patron, began organizing the stacks of papers and scientific journals as he glanced up periodically at the well-groomed billionaire with a small smile. Bruce leaned forward, extending his hand across the desk in order to shake the other man’s hand but found no response as the doctor’s arms were already full of heavy encyclopedias. Beginning to speak, Crane walked over to the nearly ceiling high bookcase to put away the thick volumes.

"If you don’t mind my inquiring,” his voice broke, breath caught in his throat, as he struggled to reach the top shelf of the bookcase with one of the heaviest volume in his wounded hand. In retrospect a horrible lapse in judgment, but then again he was not exactly thinking clearly after the attack. Ever the gentleman, Bruce was across the room to assist the man just as Crane managed to shove the book into its correct place. Jonathan felt the warm brush of skin ghosting over the back of his hand, lingering against the makeshift paper bandage. Heart seeming to pump liquid fire through his veins, the young doctor look up at the man standing far closer than propriety allotted him to. Something flickered just beneath the surface in the man’s dark eyes as he looked at the blood seeping through the dingy paper fibers before glancing back at his face. There was much more to Bruce Wayne than a simple minded, gallivanting playboy the tabloids had typecast him as. But then again, Ra’s had told him it would be a good idea to keep an eye on the man’s antics for anything slightly suspicious, and this definitely fell into that category. Sliding his hand from beneath the enticing warmth supplied by Bruce’s flesh, Crane cocked his head to one side as he silently studied the man in close proximity. “But exactly why do you wish to donate to Arkham?” he finally asked, continuing to speak with the same equanimity.

“Well, why do you work here?” Bruce countered with a condescending air, regaining his superior grin as he watched the very subtle tint faintly coloring the doctor’s cheeks as he pulled his wounded hand away. Obviously the man was calling the validity of the query into question; implying with the inflections of his voice that if the qualified doctor had belief in the importance of his own asylum then the man should simply be grateful to have a benefactor and not question it. Buzzing in the back of his mind, Jonathan felt a surge of muted anger mingled closely with a darker rooted lust, all focused on the arrogant man for making his insides writhe with such a simple touch; he was better than that, stronger. He would not be intimidated. Thus, though he knew exactly what the man meant by defensively turning the matter at hand back on him, a response tactic the psychiatrist came up against several times in the past, Crane chose to be ornery and actually respond to the question posed before him. In truth, neither Arkham nor Jonathan Crane truly needed Bruce Wayne’s extensive pocketbook on their side, in a few short weeks, after the ransoming of the city itself; money would no longer be a problem.

“If you really want to know,” he began, contradicting his calm words with the effort of forcefully shoving the rest of the books onto the lower level shelves and turning to look at Bruce with a sardonic smile. Stepping away from the young doctor with his own strangely approving grin, not failing to note the man’s subtle defiance, Bruce returned to his seat; silently listening to the man’s low murmuring voice. “At first it was just to study the immoral psyche and how the criminally insane responded to psychiatric treatment.” Crane began, refusing to look at Wayne as he focused on shuffling the loose-leaf papers into small piles of categorized patient notes.

“There _is_ a fundamental difference between Arkham and jail, though I’m sure your D.A. friend would claim otherwise.” A rather defensive tone clipped the doctor’s words short, the same ridged manner spread to his agitated actions as he briskly tossed a few stacks of paper into a drawer. “Both are in accordance with judicial law, but one simply punishes without actually delving into the root of the problem.” The young man’s voice was beginning to take on a more impassioned quality. “Thus leaving the indignant criminal rather susceptible to being drawn right back into the life of crime. All jail truly does in this city is give criminals time to converse with one another and stew about resenting the system that put them there in the first place.” Jonathan continued with the same fervor, feeling all the stress of the day balling up tightly in his chest before pouring from his lips. “No real good has been done.” He paused to take a deep breath, realizing that he had allowed the irritating woman to actually get under his skin with her accusations and constant probing. Even if she had been spot on about his dealings with Falcone she had no right to question the validity of the asylum, making herself out to be holier-than-thou with her constant crusade for justice, thinking she was better than Jonathan Crane. As head of psychiatry at Arkham, his position was far more apt to assist those who had done wrong than her silly slap on the wrist prison. “The other attempts to explain the real driving force behind the crime and then try to fix it through therapy or pharmaceutical means so the men are actually rehabilitated; not merely kept off the streets for a short period of time.” He finished, pushing the drawer closed with more force than he had intended, wincing slightly as it banged against the wooden back.

‘ _A man after my own heart,_ ’ Bruce thought as his smile widened, remembering the seven year trip he had left college, Gotham and his name behind to try and learn more about the corrupt mind, though he focused on just the average petty ones not the truly insane. Also, the man was talking about hope, redemption all in accordance with justice. The young doctor was already racking up the extra brownie points, defiant yet polite in the same breath unlike the sycophants that constantly swarmed around him, phony smiles plastered on their faces, always with the same damned agreeable dispositions. And now he learned the young man had been researching his same cause, not to mention the poorly suppressed sexual attraction radiating from the slighter man.

“However, my job here quickly grew into so much more than just a psychiatric analytical study.” The young man paused, attraction outweighing repulsion, as his eyes were drawn away from the papers to glance at the man. Staring for a moment, not surprised to find Bruce’s eyes intently watching his every movement, Crane finished fussing with the lost attempt at straightening his desk. “You see there is one commonality I discovered linking all my patients; fear.” Doctor Crane said with a wholly analytical tone, reminiscent of the old lecture classes at the university. However, while he slipped around the desk, a feral quality seemed to sharpen his movements. Stopping in front of where Bruce sat, the young man leaned against the edge of the desk with his arms folded across his thin chest. “You’ve felt fear, right Mister Wayne.” He asked, inclining his head and cocking an eyebrow. An underlying sadistic quality just barely slipped beneath the superficial surface of abstract psychobabble. Though he knew the man sitting before him had definitely felt fear he still pressed the matter, some part of his touch of megalomania taking pleasure in watching the once intimidating man writhe while he loomed above him. Somewhat affronted by the offhand reference to his parents’ murder, Bruce opened his mouth but slowly closed it as he waited to hear where the doctor was going with the tangent. “I’m sure that even up in your pristine ivory tower there are still things that go bump in the night.” He mocked in a low murmur, a leer curling up the corners of his lips.

Only one other person had spoken so, well blunt was not the right word, rather uncensored, and that had been his childhood friend, Rachel. If Bruce was completely honest with himself, he would admit that factor was a large part of the draw that the woman possessed. So when he found himself confronted by the young man, too effeminate to be handsome but too masculine to be pretty, he was able to recognize the bittersweet burning sensation in the pit of his stomach for what it was; attraction. Bruce could tell the man had a spark ignited within him that had yet to go out from wear and tear after several years of listening to the tormented screams of lunacy. He was definitely no where near as fragile as his thin frame would otherwise suggest.

“That’s what I study.” All traces of muted hostility seemed to drain from Jonathan as his spine straightened and his arms fell away from his chest. “The affects of fear and just what sway they have upon the criminal mind and thusly their body.” Crane caught the strange glint in the man’s eyes as he finished speaking. Observing that there was something more to the issue lurking just beneath the surface he continued with the topic trying to see if he could hit upon anything. “It’s that raw fear that is most dangerous, especially if some misguided crusader ever learned how to manipulate it.” That struck a chord within Bruce, as he once again knew from his own personal experience exactly what the doctor was speaking about; it was exactly what the Batman did. The sentiment triggered the man’s mind, instantly replaying a request he had made before Ra’s and Ducard long ago, ‘ _I seek the means…to turn fear against those who prey on the fearful…_ ’

“It’s rather interesting,” Jonathan stated, a quiet manner lacing his voice causing Bruce to strain to hear him, interrupting the man’s memory. While he spoke he began gesturing distractedly with small fluid movements. However, if one watched the seemingly mindless fluttering of hands one would catch the sublet motioning towards himself and then to the other man while his lips lingered over the words ‘mind’ and ‘body.’ “Just how the mind and body fit together.” The sinfully smooth and insinuating tenor curving Jonathan’s voice was not lost on Bruce as he shifted uncomfortable in his chair. Anger slowly dissolving into the idea of a challenge posed by the man, Crane thought of trying to turn the billionaire’s intimidation back on him. He thusly allowed himself to indulge in the dark, dominating lust that had hit his body only a few moments ago. “How useless the body would be rendered if it were devoid of a mind to…” Pausing, he looked down at the floor, as if the bland print could supply him with the answer. A clever tongue slipped out, tracing over the full lips before he parted them to speak, finding the right words. “Control it,” he concluded, dusky eyelashes sweeping up as he glanced at Bruce over the rim of his glasses, piercing blue driving right into the very soul of the man. “Would you not agree, Mister Wayne?” The young man inquired rhetorically, quickly snapping back into his natural role as propriety dictated. He straightened his posture, pushing away from where he was leaned against the edge of the desk before moving to cross back around to his own chair.

“Whole-heartedly,” the man replied, distractedly tugging at the crisp white cuffs of his overpriced white collar shirt with a cool, calm demeanor. He did not miss a beat, unwilling to show Crane the effect the young man was having on him; just as easily slipping back into his smug, aristocratic persona.

“So now that I’ve answered your question,” Doctor Crane began with a dry, uninterested tone, slowly crossing one leg over the other and placing his folded hands on one knee, leaning in ever so slightly. The billionaire hid a grin as he watched the young doctor take on the almost too cliché psychiatric posture; a mildly interested glaze to his otherwise expressionless face as he leant in, keeping his distance yet at the same time letting the man to know he was listening. “Would you be so kind as to reciprocate the favor?” For a moment the two men sat in silence, staring calmly at one another while the unspoken challenge charged the air with a certain electric element. A wide smile, displaying the white glint of teeth, accompanied by a pretentious laugh poured from Bruce’s lips as he rose to the test.

“Just want to do what I can to help keep the maniacs off the streets and getting treatment.” It was in part the truth, just not all of it. Bruce pulled out the checkbook from his inner coat pocket, before searching in his suit’s other compartments for a pen. With his dark brows raised in mock concern, lips pursed as if the man was wasting his valuable time, Jonathan was loving every minute. He leaned across the desk, offering the man a fountain pen that had been hidden beneath the botany encyclopedia. Taking the proffered pen with a murmured thank you, the man began filling out the check. “My compassion, you know,” Bruce said as he glanced up at the good doctor, speaking with the same haughty tenor he had used when speaking with many of the elite in Gotham while the topic at hand was the dark knight.

“Though in this case,” the doctor stated, rising from his seat and walking slowly to the door of his office, implying with his body language that Mister Wayne would do well to follow him. “Since my asylum stands to benefit from your _compassion_ , I won’t argue with you,” he stumbled over the word, the muscles in his jaw locking as he tried to wrap his tongue around the syllables, never having taking a liking to the concept of compassion. “But I would otherwise tell you to keep it in check. It may be your downfall, Mister Wayne.” The warning seemed oddly familiar though at the moment, looking down into the icy blue hidden behind glinting spectacles, Bruce could not seem to place it.

“I’ll remember that, thanks,” he whispered with a smile, leaning in close. Pressing his hand against the man’s chest, Bruce tucked the folded check in the man’s open breast pocket as he had done to the Maitre D the night before at the hotel he now owned. Unlike last night, however, his fingers lingered against the semi-expensive material for a little longer than what would be considered proper. Warm flesh caressed the back of his hand as Jonathan covered the man’s hand, pulling it away from his chest to finally shake. A shock of want shot up Bruce’s arm as the tapered fingertips pressed lightly against his pulse, feeling it jump up notch at the contact.

“My pleasure, Bruce,” Jonathan murmured in the same low tone, lips wrapping around the name with a slight pucker, leaving them vulnerable for a stolen kiss that, to the young man’s surprise, was not taken. The good doctor had seemingly forgotten that a man such as Bruce Wayne did not need to steal.

 

 

Once again in the very heart of the Narrows, drenched and searching for the other portion of the drug shipment Falcone had brought in, the dark knight found himself pulling apart a child’s toy. Just as he discovered the small plastic bags containing the drugs hidden inside the plush rabbits, he heard the click of a lock turning accompanied by squeaking hinges as the door opened. Looming in the unlit portion of the apartment he had slipped into a moment ago, Batman watched the three indistinguishable figures move about the room, veiled by the darkness. One of the men, the obvious superior of the three, murmured something in a low voice that he could not distinguish. The other two went about soaking the sorry excuse for an apartment in gasoline. After making short work of the two thugs, sufficiently knocking both men out cold, he rounded on the third man. Before his frantic mind could grasp what was actually happening, catching a glimpse of a tattered burlap mask covering the man’s face, he was breathing in the puff of white gas that the man had released into the air. It burned its way inside his lungs as he tried to no avail to fight it, sputtering and coughing.

He had felt that same sensation before, but not this potent.

The entire room began to pulsate with a strange erratic rhythm as the hallucinogen instantly reacted with his body, filtering quickly into his bloodstream as it filled his lungs. A searing current of twisted, sadistic pleasure filled the Scarecrow’s mind and body as he watched the very symbol who was supposedly the embodiment of fear itself, fall victim to his overpowering toxin. The man was rapidly slipping beneath _his_ control. **He** was Fear, not this caped crusader of the night, and he would show it to him one way or another. Batman would know exactly who in Gotham he should fear.

Shrill laughter echoed in his ears, nearly splitting his eardrums, Batman stumbled backwards. His gloved hands pressed against his already protected ears in a vain attempt to block out the taunting sound. Frantic, he attempted to get away from the man in the frayed mask whose gaping mouth was dripping with squirming insects and bats. The man’s own gangly arms were fluttering about in the slightly oversized suit coat as he spoke; resonating voice sounding contorted and warped in Batman’s mind.

“You know nothing of fear, Bat-man,” Scarecrow yelled, emphasizing the suffix of the symbol’s name with a violent push; implying the man’s mortality he had displayed by falling prey to the doctor’s toxin. The tormenter followed him step for step, continuing to press his pale hands against the chest of Batman’s black body armor. With a final shove, using all the strength he possessed, the man managed to push him across the room. Tripping on one of the wooden chairs that immediately splintered beneath the sudden weight, the dark knight was suddenly sprawled on his back in a puddle of flammable gasoline. Above him the plaster ceiling began to swirl, strange stains mingling together to create a portal filled with deep, dark childhood nightmares that still haunted the man behind the black mask in the dead of night. Before he could catch his breath, a heavy weight knocked the wind out of his lungs as it landed on his stomach and chest.

Batman tried fighting back as best he could, arms thrashing blindly at the thin man pressing against his abdomen. One connected with the Scarecrow’s side before tapered fingers wrapped around his wrists. “Ah, ah, ah,” he whispered, shoving the dark knight’s hands above his head, tightening the grip until he felt the tight muscles beneath thick gloves relax.

“I bet you’ve never been dominated.” The crazed voice dropped low, though it was still warped demonically by the hallucinogen flooding Batman’s system. His clever tongue caressed the last word as he rolled it around his mouth, tasting the sweet sound of it as he spoke to the infamous Batman. A cold terror bubbled up inside the deepest part of the dark knight’s soul, bursting as he saw the frayed mask move nearer to his own face. He attempted to no avail to toss the smaller man off, twisting his hips with a sharp jerk. Writhing beneath the light pressure of the Scarecrow’s weight, he screwed his eyes shut as the man dipped his masked face closer.

“Look at me!” Releasing his grip on the dark knight’s wrists, one oddly warm hand grasped his chin with a crushing grip as the voice screamed. Batman tried to struggle against the pressure, but the Scarecrow’s bare nails clawing at his exposed skin forced the man to open his eyes. Wild terror glazed the man’s dark stare as he looked up at the screeching flurry of bats wreathing the fabric mask. Half the fight that remained within the Batman drained from his face. “Bet no one has seen you flat on your back before, gazing down at you in total control…” If not for the bitter sick sensation filling his stomach, the hard glide of slim hips shifting against his own, accompanied by the perversely seductive voice, it would be nearly erotic. But then again that might just have been the weaponized hallucinogen talking.

“You feel that,” the man began, “in the pit of your stomach?” Pressing his hand against the stiff suit, the masked man’s deft fingers searched for the down curve of the Batman’s toned stomach sadly hidden beneath the body hugging Kevlar. “That’s fear, that’s terror,” Scarecrow whispered sadistically, somehow holding the man’s gaze as he slowly tugged off the burlap mask. A glinting mass of light illuminated the man’s face in Batman’s eyes, radiating a near blinding glow where two eyes should have been. Bright white, draining the color of the man’s flesh, was all the dark knight could see as he looked up at the man straddling his hips. The Scarecrow’s hand slowly slid back up to dig blunt nails into the tear resistant fiber weave protecting the Batman’s chest.

“And maybe a little lower,” his voice had changed back to at least somewhat resembling a human’s. A mischievous grin spread upon the crazed man’s face, bleeding over into his tone as he rocked his hips against Batman’s.

Trying to stabilize himself, the gloved hands grasped thin hips, squeezing tight before the Scarecrow yelped. The sound dissolved into a moan as he thrust against the unyielding body armor. “Fear and pleasure.” Unable to control himself while trying to block out the glowing young man backlit by a spinning ceiling, a guttural moan rolled in the back of his throat before leaking from his lips The Scarecrow had won this round. “Welcome to my hell, Batman,” he scoffed before closing the gap between the two.

Lips crushing together with bruising force, Batman felt his body snap taut, shifting against the Scarecrow’s slim hips as his body gave itself over to the searing heat. It was odd how soft the sinfully lush lips felt moving against his own. The warm tip of the Scarecrow’s tongue traced over the Batman’s fuller lower lip, caressing the warm flesh before nipping at it. Gloved fingers wrapped around the thin shoulders as the Batman fought against the all encompassing light threatening to consume his body. He felt the cool chill of teeth, the sensation amplified tenfold, graze over his lip before sinking into the yielding skin. Metallic tang filled both men’s mouths as the Scarecrow’s teeth drew blood. Batman’s fingers dug into the man’s coat, tearing at the fabric with his last ounces of strength. Pulling his lips away, slightly swollen from what could hardly be called a kiss, he pushed himself off the Batman as if suddenly disgusted. From where he stood, looming above the drugged man, the Scarecrow grinned.

"Have I gotten you all _hot_ and bothered?” In his delusional state of mind, the dark knight watched as the illuminated man pulled something from his pocket. And before he blinked everything was suddenly engulfed in flames.

 

 

Veiled by the all encompassing darkness, the only sensation Crane’s numb body could feel was the cold bite of the metallic surface making up his apartment door. Knees, trembling from overexertion after running through the alleys of the Narrows, gave out and buckled beneath him. He collapsed in a heap on the hardwood floorboards with his back still pressed against the door. Abrupt, sporadic puffs of breath were all the young man could manage as he ducked his head down, chin pressing against his collarbone. Desperately clutching the duffle bag full of drug laced toys and his burlap mask with an iron grip, he silently assured himself the hallucinogen was going nowhere. No man or Bat would take it from him. The lightweight fabric crinkled quietly beneath his touch as he squeezed it tighter. Old childhood neurosis resurfacing, Jonathan drew up his gangly legs so that they were touching the backs of his folded arms.

The crashing reality of what he had done and the possible consequences of those actions swept over him, starting deep within his chest and radiating out until his fingertips were shaking uncontrollably. His entire body began to tremble with an unbridled energy, a strange lingering after shock. All of the last remaining threads, strung far too taut for far too long, finally snapped until one solitary link to his sanity was left intact. Soon the trembling dissolved into a fit of laugher. It was a low, eerie sound that would send the hairs on the back of anyone’s neck standing on end. The noise halted abruptly before starting up once more with a whispering snicker before fading away completely.

It was the first time the Scarecrow had taken full control over Jonathan Crane, both mind and body.

When the doctor had first been experimenting with modifications to his burlap mask as well as the hallucinogen the connoisseur of fear would emerge from the deepest part of the man’s psyche. It had always been a taunting voice, one that never stayed long enough for Crane to figure out its deeper purpose for being was. In the past it had been easy to control the instincts, but as soon as the dormant ‘character flaw,’ as Crane was beginning to deem it, caught sight of Batman the Scarecrow automatically took the reigns. Feeding on the twinge of fear the dark knight had inspired in the doctor, it took the tiniest opportunity and ran with it. Despite Crane’s penchant for evoking terror, when he came face to face with the infamous Batman he knew the only way to rise to the challenge would be to retreat behind the mask. Thus the Scarecrow took over; satisfying the carnal lust for fear and power like the good doctor could not.

Only now, after feeling the raw intensity of being controlled so completely by the Scarecrow, did the man realize it for what it truly was: an amplified, larger than life, version of his own most perverse flaws. However, and this was the one thing Jonathan wanted to get straight in his mind so long as the Scarecrow’s dominance had gone into remission, it was no alter-ego or manifestation of something wholly alien to himself. The Scarecrow was Jonathan Crane. Even after the mask was gone, the man had still toyed with the drugged Batman. It was Crane’s twisted desire that had been the driving force behind his actions, not the Scarecrow’s. The sole difference that had been keeping the two divided was that, unlike the young doctor who was bound by society to act accordingly in order to function in it, the master of Fear indulged himself in the sadistic fantasies without so much as a thought about the repercussions. It was the freedom of the mask to hide behind at first which gave the Scarecrow and not Crane, the ability to do as he wished.

If the young doctor remembered his Freud correctly, ‘Doctor Crane’ was the embodiment of the superego, concerned with appearances and maintaining a counterbalanced to impulse. Thus the Scarecrow would represent instinct based only on satisfying his desire for pleasure, id. Lastly, there was the ego, the key to the trinity, which worked as the buffer. Both of the more predominant components had slowly been tearing away at the ego until it was reduced to nothing but a thin strand. Without the trifecta the precarious balance called sanity would no doubt slip completely in a short time and Crane would fall off the edge and finally cross the nearly nonexistent divider.

As coherent as was possible, the young doctor rationalized that there were two ways he could cope with the sudden turn of events. One, he, as Jonathan, could fight for the control of his body. Or two, he could simply embrace the urge whenever it came over him and give into the always persuasive reasoning of the Scarecrow.

 _‘You’d have to be insane not to give into pure pleasure.’_

However, there was still that final strand left tying Doctor Crane down to Arkham and his reality. Until the young man had his money from the ransoming of Gotham, he would need to cling to that last lifeline. After all, the Scarecrow was Jonathan and thus there had to be some sort of method to his madness, at least before the madness took total control.

 

 

It was an odd thing when a kingpin, one as powerful in the underworld as Carmine Falcone had been, was conveniently being moved out of a prison cell and into the padded white walls of Arkham Asylum. Even more interesting was the timing of the relocation, so soon after the drug bust that at last had nailed him. Perhaps it was possible that man could have simply cracked after finally finding himself in custody after more than a decade of eluding the police. However, Bruce did not want to take any chances with optimistic thoughts, especially after experiencing firsthand what exposure to the hallucinogen the thug had been transporting into Gotham en masse would do to a person’s mind. Whatever the real reason behind the criminal’s transfer Bruce, or rather Batman, had to find it out directly from a hopefully still lucid Falcone. It was too dangerous a game to leave up to chance when there was such a powerful weapon that could twist a person's mind so vividly in the hands of very dangerous and very capable people. Who knew what could be planned for the already disparaging city?

One of the nicer things about the Tumbler, aside from the shiny gizmos and gadgets that riddled the interior, was that if one such as Bruce Wayne or Batman needed to get into the Narrows without being seen, even in the light of afternoon, he could do so. After entering the neighborhood, it had been easy to locate the large brick building, illuminated brightly even in daylight by the hundreds of large windows lining every floor visible above ground. Bruce noted that many of the panes of glass on the lower levels were barred by wrought iron. Pulling onto the seedy back alley just behind Arkham, the young man turned off the tank like vehicle’s engine.

For a long moment he sat silently in the Tumbler, allowing his heart rate to drop back down to a calmer rhythm after skyrocketing a half hour ago upon hearing Rachel discussing Falcone’s transfer on her cellular phone. The anxious energy that had been coiling up inside him ever since then, ready to snap at the slightest hint of any suspicious behavior, slowly began to drain from him. However, as he let the tension ease out of his body his mind cleared and it finally hit him: it would be a good two hours before sunset. There was no way he, Bruce Wayne, could be seen affiliating with a criminal such as Falcone, let alone Batman being spotted so obviously out of his element. The world of daylight was definitely not the place to showcase the dark knight’s abilities to blend in with the darkness as Ducard had taught him; he would need to wait for nightfall.

With a soft sigh of self-deprecation for his lack of foresight, accompanied by the quiet shuffle of expensive fabric brushing against flesh, his hands released the steering controls. They dropped heavily into his lap as he laced them together. So, okay, maybe he had been a little too gung-ho, full of adrenaline and rushing out before completely assessing the situation with an analytical mindset. Luckily, some part of his more perceptive subconscious had been engaged. Thus, Bruce had opted to wear one of the spare business suits he kept down in the cave instead of directly changing into the heavy, Kevlar body armor. At the time his rational for doing so was simply that the damn thing was so stifling hot. He glanced over at the passenger seat beside him where he had tossed the perfectly inconspicuous track bag containing his Batman paraphernalia. Pausing his idle inspection of the slightly off center seam which ran along the edge of the bag, he found his eyes being drawn up to stare at the asylum.

‘ _Doctor Jonathan Crane…_ ’ The man’s name floated about in his head as the billionaire became transfixed on one of the only windows in the asylum that appeared to be dark. While attempting to decide what to do with the extra time he now found on his hands, Bruce slipped out of the Tumbler when he was sure the alley was devoid of any possible witnesses. A lingering thought skirted luridly about the edges of his more erotic sentiments, daring only for a moment to present itself as a mere whimsy he probably would never act on. It was one concerning the good doctor and his razor thin layer of self-control that had shamelessly taunted Bruce to shatter it throughout the entire meeting he had had with Jonathan a few days before. However, before his brain could catch up with his body the young man had crossed the street and was briskly making his way to the elevators at the end of the hallway, up to the third floor, corner office in the left wing; so drastically different from his own posh workplace.

It was his birthday after all.

Bruce Wayne, the veritable prince of Gotham might as well have a little bit of fun before being consumed by his self-proclaimed duties as the dark knight. In addition, the knowledge that it would probably take Rachel some time, hopefully until around dusk, before she made it to Arkham gave him some peace of mind. The thought stripped away the coating of guilt wrapped tight about his better judgment that had been threatening to stop him dead in his tracks. When the prying young woman arrived at the asylum Bruce was sure she would be able to lead Batman right to where Falcone was being kept.

A faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips, he pressed the elevator button containing a cracked plastic number three. He watched the dim bulb flicker a few times before finally lighting up as he thought back to what Alfred had said to him the last time before he had come to Arkham, ‘ _You start pretending to have fun, you might even have a little by accident_.’ Oh, and it had been far too long since Bruce had his kind of fun. He shifted anxiously in the compact space, plunging his hands into the cloth depths of his pants pockets. Of course he had never been one for short-lived, torrid affairs but a little part of his public persona was actually beginning to rub off on him. Plus there was the horrible fact that he had not touched another man in too long a time to remember and that kinky bastard three nights ago wearing a burlap sack on his head certainly did not count as any form of sexual contact.

An automated chime notified him he had reached the third level. The sound was just barely managing to buzz over the constant background noise of muffled laments coming from several of the padded rooms on either side of the hallway. Putting the nonchalant façade back on, plastering a charming, yet perfectly condescending smirk on his lips, the young man stepped out of the elevator. He turned down the long corridor, the soles of his vastly overpriced designer shoes clicking faintly against the bland linoleum tiles. At the very end he spotted Crane’s secretary. Already from halfway down the hall he could hear the murmuring beat of music pulsing from where she was seated, idly sharpening her nails with a distinctly neon orange file.

“Excuse me, Miss,” Bruce inclined his head, bending at the waist to read the gold nameplate on her cluttered desk, “Scarlet,” he finished with a wide grin that was completely wasted on the woman who had yet to notice him. Glancing up, he found her to be completely fascinated by her own nails. Finally, as she held out her hand in order to survey her work she saw the tall man standing before her. Scarlet dropped the nail file onto her desk, mouth falling open slightly before she gathered her composure and, with an awkward grace, stood up from her chair. “Could you tell me if Doctor Crane is in at the moment?”

“Oh, yeah,” the young woman replied, her voice coming out louder than what Bruce had been expecting from such a small frame. A faint blush tinted her cheeks before she corrected the volume, lowering it to a more suitable level. “Yeah, go right on in, Mister Wayne.” She smiled brightly and motioned towards the office door.

“Thank you,” Bruce murmured with his own polite grin, only serving to deepen the woman’s blush. A little part of the man took pleasure in watching the secretary so obviously attempting to flirt with him. Leaning across her desk, she watched the man step inside her boss’ office as she pressed the bud back against her ear. Humming along to the tune, she resumed sharpening her nails.

Doctor Crane had been working rather halfheartedly on copying down a few notes from his observations on a patient who had been exposed to the nicknamed ‘fear gas’ for a long period of time into his own personal journal. In actuality there was no real point in doing so, seeing as how there was nothing else he could do to modify the toxin already in the water supply and he most definitely would be out of a job the next day. Though, it not as if he would need one after mass panic was instilled in Gotham.

The monotony of rewriting his own words had led the young man to drawing a couple crude sketches in the blank margin. One was the twisted figure of a certain meddlesome assistant D.A. locked in a padded cell, screaming in vain for the Bat-man to come and save her. At a glance, the young man looked to be diligently working on the transcription, save for the demonic glint seething just beneath the wire rims of his glasses, touching the surface of his blue eyes. He had been about to add the final touch, a looming figure with a scythe in tow, when he heard the distinct sound of a man’s voice conversing with that of his secretary. Disregarding the noise, chalking it up to be one of the brawny guards flirting with Scarlet again, Jonathan considered the prospect of sketching in Gotham’s dark knight, tied up for the Scarecrow to play with later. A breathy moan dripped from his parted lips, the sudden image that was conjured up in his mind’s eye causing the young man to shift uncomfortably in his chair. However, his thoughts were interrupted by a man’s voice mentioning his name and requesting his whereabouts. Immediately, a faint blush beginning to burn the back of his neck, he slammed the leather bound journal closed and shoved it in a desk drawer along with the observation notes. Just as he pulled opened the nearest encyclopedia to a random page the man stepped inside Crane’s office, quietly closing the door behind him.

“Mister Wayne,” the young doctor began with a genuinely surprised look, eliciting an actual smile to grace his lips.

Rising from his desk chair, discreetly flipping the book closed, Jonathan took a half-step towards the taller man. It was an instinctual movement, drawn to what he found himself desiring much more than what was appropriate, especially for being only an acquaintance. The doctor seemed to catch himself, needing to maintain at least some propriety for another few hours. Covering the mishap, he pressed a fingertip against the bridge of his spectacles, readjusting their position so they sat higher. However, the minute slip in the man’s calm demeanor was the only go-ahead Bruce needed. In a heartbeat, the perfect predator surveying his prey, Bruce crossed the short distance, circling around to where the doctor stood behind his desk.

“This is most irreg-” His words were cut short as Bruce crushed his mouth against Jonathan’s parted lips. Their teeth clicked together as the very tip of Bruce’s tongue traced over the sensitive roof of the young man’s mouth. Fingers wound into the strands of hair at the nape of the doctor’s neck. Pressing against the base of his skull, he tilted the man’s face up with a sharp tug. The pang of pain sent a cool shiver of arousal down Crane’s spine as he instinctually arched against the well-defined body. Blunt fingernails dug viciously into the expensive material stretched taut across shoulder blades as Jonathan attempted to steady himself, finding that he was pressed closer than before. It was an intoxicating sensation, the feel of another’s body heat crashing through his system until it had ignited every last nerve ending. The searing warmth was rapidly undoing the doctor’s poise, leading him ever closer towards abandon. Just as the young man had gathered his wits, or rather allowed them to fade into the background, in order to respond to the fervent advances, Bruce pulled far enough away for the young man could see his cocky smirk. An annoyed moan of displeasure was the doctor’s only response to the sudden lack of contact.

“It’s Bruce,” he murmured in a low, heated tone. The sound was muffled, lips brushing against Crane’s as he spoke. Warm breath spilling from his mouth mingled with Jonathan’s. He kissed the doctor again, languid and deep with his hand now pressed against the side of the young man’s face. Soft flesh was caught between Bruce’s teeth with a tentative pressure, testing the waters to see if the man was truly as masochistic as he had come off. It swelled, warm blood rushed to the surface as the man pulled away, raking his teeth over the flushed lip.

“Okay,” he paused considering whether or not to concede the point or maintain the level of propriety despite their compromising position. Crane settled upon the former option, “Bruce.” Seeing the immediate advantage of doing so, he once again rolled the name around on his tongue, leaving his lush mouth pursed. But this time he did not wait for the other man to act. He claimed the slow burning kiss from the man’s lips, dissolving from a gentle pressure into raw intensity which left them breathless and still very unsatisfied on several different levels. Bruce’s hands snaked down the lithe body, running over the material of his less expensive suit coat before slipping beneath to rest on the man’s thin hips. Deft fingers grasped the fabric of Bruce’s lapels before moving to pop open the topmost button of he man’s collared shirt. Twisting his head to one side, the flat of Jonathan’s tongue swiped over the man’s lower lip, pausing for a split second as it dragged over soft scar tissue. Liquid heat coursed through his veins as he tongued the spot, agonizing over the smallest details of the familiar impression.

Jonathan, Doctor Crane, the Scarecrow, all three components jockeying for dominance of the man’s psyche, knew.

He smiled into the kiss.

It fit perfectly, that is if you paid enough attention to the tabloid playboy and his ‘extracurricular activities’ or the lack there of. Simply looking at the man and his boundless resources and that first feeling he had gotten, an overpowering sense of grandeur that surrounded the billionaire, one could know. Of course, there was one extra clue the doctor had been given, a warning from Ra’s to regard the man with caution. There was no reason in saying anything at the moment, after all he was getting exactly what he wanted and he could use the information later as leverage. Plus, in Crane’s mind, so clouded by arousal and on the brink of insanity, it seemed the most appropriate thing that they should be together; both men wearing masks for everyone else in the harsh light of day. Not to mention the wonderful fact that every perverse facet of Jonathan Crane’s warped psyche was attracted to every part of the one man who embodied everything he had wanted to become. And that bit of knowledge, that the man whose tongue was currently sliding against his own was the dark knight himself so completely out of his element and within Jonathan’s, went straight to his half-hardened cock.

A sudden flare of lust welled up inside Crane. His fingers tightened in the dark strands of hair until his muscles screamed from the pressure. Writhing and tearing at Bruce’s posh suit, the doctor pulled him roughly in the direction of his desk. The only reaction from Bruce, other than allowing himself to be dragged the short distance, was a deep laugh and a haughty smirk. He had to admit that he was thoroughly enjoying the sudden fire that had sparked to life within the young man. There was definitely something fundamentally carnal seething beneath the exterior, but what the billionaire wanted to know was exactly what it was capable of. Backing up until Jonathan felt the hard press of fake wood against his ass, he finally tore his lips away from the other man’s. Pressing them against the man’s ear, hot breath pulsing over the sensitive skin, he whispered exactly what he wanted Bruce Wayne to do to him.

“Fuck me,” a command, short and simple, with an authoritative air lacing his words despite the implied submission. Jonathan’s raw desire to walk the fine line between pleasure and pain out weighed the want to dominate; he would leave that tangled mess of psychosomatic oddities for the Batman and Scarecrow to sort out the next time they met. Also, there was no sickening ache of nearly being torn in two to spike the climatic ecstasy when fucking someone. Only when fucked did Johnny boy and his never ending list of twisted neurosis truly get off.

“Bend me over the desk and f-f-f,” his breath caught in his throat as their hips matched up with a maddening slow grind. Gritting his teeth, the doctor gave an agonizingly slow buck against the man’s throbbing erection. Knuckles brushing against the confined cock, Jonathan fumbled impatiently with the other man’s belt buckle. “Fuck me.” Fed up, he ripped through the worn leather hole with a quick jerk before undoing the clasp of Bruce’s slacks. Loose black fabric fell until it hung dangerously low on the billionaire’s hips. A strangled moan escaped Bruce’s lips as the back of the man’s hand pressed hard against him before brushing away the thin fabric and pulled his cock out. The billionaire playboy dipped his head to nip and lick the pale column of Crane’s throat, muffling a keening whimper as a warm thumb smeared precome over the head of his pulsing flesh. A faint hum of the doctor’s low voice buzzed against his lips as he pressed them against the other man’s rapid pulse. “Until I don’t know who I am anymore.” Now, that was a little too close to home, for both men.

Jonathan’s skin was beginning to flush, a sheen of sweat coating his entire upper body beneath the collared shirt and overlaying suit coat. “Top drawer, condoms,” he murmured against the man’s lips as one hand fumbled with the knob for the mentioned drawer. Bruce could not help but raise an eyebrow. Fingers slipped beneath the waistband of the doctor’s pants, tugging them off the jutting hipbones until they slipped to mid thigh. He felt the slick skin glide against the callused pads of his fingers as Jonathan spun around. Glancing over his shoulder at the taller man, he leered, “Leave the lube.” A manic grin split the doctor’s face as he felt the slightest pressure against the faded bruises left on his skin from where the Batman had fought back, squeezing the Scarecrow until he yelped.

“You got it, Doc.,” Bruce ground out in a low tenor as his teeth tore open the silver package.

The searing press of Bruce’s cock shifted to nudge against the exposed cleft as Jonathan arched against the man’s chest, hipbones pressing hard against the edge of his desk. Feeling the lithe body sliding against his own, Bruce struggled to control the urge to fuck the young man dry. Crane took one of the taller man’s hands away from his waist, head falling back to rest on the man’s shoulder. Pressing the fingers to his parted lips, the young man took two into his mouth. A short hiss of pleasure slipped past Bruce’s teeth as he watched the young man’s cheeks hollowing as he sucked, the clever tongue wrapping around the tips and sliding against the salty flesh. His body was thrumming with arousal. Feeling the quiver just beneath the man’s skin, Crane let the finger slip from his mouth. Palms flat against the desktop, dark tie dangling from where it was wrapped about his throat, the two digits plunged inside him.

An instant rush of intoxicating pain hit him square in the chest as Bruce stretched him open before thrusting his saliva slicked latex covered and painfully aroused cock within the bent body. The doctor grinned, riding the overwhelming wave of pleasure as his muscles burned in protest to the invading touch, the poorly lubricated rubber grating against his skin. Buried to the hilt, Bruce’s fingers clutched the man’s hips just below where they had banged against the desk. A tight, scolding heat seemed to burn his very flesh with a sweet satisfaction; apparently it had also been a while since the good doctor had gotten any. Sticky lips pressed against the nape of Crane’s neck as he felt soft fabric brush against his back where it clung to Bruce’s toned body.

Breath coming in erratic spurts, Jonathan felt the cool metal slide down the bridge of his nose, slipping against the thin gloss of sweat. The spectacles clattered against the desktop as the man finally started moving, pounding into the doctor with reckless abandon. His entire body began to tremble, flushed lips falling open in a silent scream. Pain coursed through his veins, feeling as if he was being torn in two.

Thrusting into Jonathan with an impossibly fast pace, a deep throated groan punctuated every snap of his hips. Jonathan felt a larger hand, palm slicked with sweat from where it had been clutching his hipbone, press against the back of his own. Each tapered digit fell between the gaps of his splayed fingers upon the faux wooden surface of his office desk. The touch was too intimate, too real. Ripping his hand out from beneath Bruce’s, Crane bent his arm at the elbow, reaching back to slip beneath the other man’s open collar. Fingernails dragged across the yielding skin of Bruce’s neck, leaving behind a trail of scratches as he slammed into the lithe over and over again.

One particularly sharp corner of the encyclopedia dug into his ribs as his arm gave way, collapsing onto the desktop. Ignoring the loud clatter as office supplies and several volumes of informational text fell onto the carpeted floor, the doctor tried to dislodge the book from beneath his body. With the shift in his position brought new meaning to the word sublime as Bruce’s cock finally hit his prostate. A low moan of pure pleasure tore from Jonathan’s lips as his entire body snapped taut. His own cock, from where it had been trapped against the hard desk, was suddenly enveloped in a tight fist. The long deprived sensation of another hand on him, coupled with the deep thrusts, each one striking the same spot over and over, dragged the young man over the edge, plunging into the deep end of bliss.

“Mmmm, Bruce…” A moan, low, lingering and horribly erotic, twisted with a beautiful agony. His entire body went slack as a wholly satisfied aftershock washed over him while the other man found his own climax a few frenzied thrusts later.

As every last ounce of blood seemed to have drained from his legs, Bruce fell back into the leather chair behind the desk with a whimper that could have been the doctor’s name. Languidly hitching his pants back up around his narrow hips, stuffing the shirt tails into the loose waistband, Jonathan turned to face the other man. Face flushed, he leaned back on the desk, propping himself up on his elbows to survey the sated billionaire who apparently still had quite a lot on his mind despite his obvious state. A harsh sting of aching pain clawed at the young man as he sat back, his flesh rubbed raw. The sound of ragged breaths coming from Bruce slumped in the chair, the only noise filling the small room reeking of sex, was interrupted by a high-pitched beep.

“Doctor Crane,” the young woman’s voice inquired, accompanied by the dull buzz of music. With the same languorous movement lacing his actions, the young man leaned across the desk before sliding off the corner to stand. The doctor discovered, with no amount of suppressed amusement, that the white plastic base for the phone was dangling from a thick gray cable.

"Yes, Scarlet?” he replied as he pressed the intercom button and placing the phone back on his desk. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Bruce fussing with the ripped notch in the leather belt, a puzzled expression as to how it had gotten that way evident on his face. However, he noticed that the man had given up on tucking his rumpled shirt back into his pants. He masked the flawed fabric with the suit coat he clasped shut with one button.

“There’s a Rachel Dawes to see you about a patient, Carmine Falcone.” That information seemed to peak the brooding man’s interest, but of course it would, he was the Batman after all. Licking his lips, the doctor managed to quickly make himself presentable upon hearing the actual matter of importance. “She’s waiting for you outside Mister Falcone’s room.” Jonathan grabbed the discarded glasses from where they had fallen on his desk.

“Alright.” Halfway to the door, methodically smoothing back the mussed strands of hair, Bruce paused. The billionaire glanced over his shoulder at the young doctor who had been regarding him with the same cool indifference, though there was something deeper he could not make out. Backtracking in one fluid motion, a hand gently wrapped around the back of Jonathan’s neck, fingers brushing against the man’s pulse. Bruce pressed a short, possessive kiss to his swollen mouth. As he pulled away the young man leaned forward, following the retreating man’s lips in an attempt to prolong the contact. Slowly opening his eyes the man had disappeared, and Crane was quite sure he had not left through the door.

‘ _See ya soon, Bat-man,_ ’ the Scarecrow whispered inside Jonathan’s mind as a grin spread over his lips. He left the office to find the intrusive woman, cleaning the sweat from the lenses of his spectacles before rounding the corner and slipping them on, heaving a sigh as he saw Miss Dawes waiting for him. The sadistic, bordering on homicidal, gleam in his eyes was tactfully covered by the reflecting light hitting his glasses, leaving nothing in his gaze to be revealed.


End file.
